


Filter Out the Leaves

by murder-for-tea (pineapplessmell)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Descent into Madness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Open to Interpretation, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplessmell/pseuds/murder-for-tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Ripper threatening their lives, Will and Alana are forced to leave London, luckily Lecter Castle has many empty rooms, Hannibal offers them refuge with him when he returns home with his new ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The mounted stag's head glared him down, there was so much blood and the gun slipped from his fingers. The pale girl- Abigail- scrambled out from under the table to avoid her father's spreading blood pool, and slipped in her mother's. Dr Lecter's cologne matched well with the coppery stench of death, as he brushed past to calm Abigail. The room swayed and he fell to his knees, greatly saddened he wasn't the only orphan in the room now. Alana held him up- her warm embrace- and she was rocking him- the sound of hushed sobs grew louder- like a kettle screaming-

He startled, jumping when his cheek moved from the mild patch he'd created on the window to a colder one. The train had slowed for a corner, the brakes screeching. Slowly the rocking sensation reduced until it was gentle, lulling, like Alana's arms had been. He looked up as Dr Lecter poured the tea.

Alana, bundled in a winter shawl, her hastily packed belongings stuffed in the bag in her lap, that she clutched close in her sleep. Abigail was sleeping against the window opposite him in their closed carriage booth. Will wriggled his toes in his boots, stretching minutely. 

"We are nearly there," The doctor started the conversation Will had been trying to hide from. Rain started to spit against the train roof, a slow pitter-patter, "How do you feel, Will?"

"Fine," he lied, "How far now?" They couldn't be that close, it was still dark outside, though admittedly the haze of red light accumulating on the horizon was a sure sign morning was on its way. 

"A few hours till the station, then a few minutes by carriage. The castle is quite near the tracks." He passed Will a steaming teacup. His hands shook and the doctor had to steady the china for him before he scolded himself.

"Thank you," Will mumbled. The heavens opened and the falling water rapped against the window, constant, steady beats.

"I think you will like my home Will, it has a certain... peacefulness," Dr Lecter sipped his tea, "A solitude; one that I grew to miss in your city."

Abigail shifted in her sleep, the rain on the window loud in her ear. They both watched her alabaster face screw up, the content of her dreams growing disturbed. The doctor lowered his cup to brush her hair with his gentle hand, soothing away her troubles. Peace fell upon the carriage once more.

"Not that I dislike your city," Dr Lecter concluded.

"Not my city."

"I was under the impression you'd lived in London since you were young."

"I preferred Virginia," Will shrugged, thumbing the scratchy collar of his shirt, the tie crumpled. An old faded jumper and threadbare woollen gloves, cut at the fingers, were his even scratchier overcoat. Only the coat had the slightly more militaristic cut of New England. It had been part of his father's Sunday clothes. Rain had caught its shoulders but the train was too cold to take it off.

"New-England before your mother's death," Dr Lecter clarified, a question that wasn't a question. He knew the answer and expected no reply.

"It was sunny there, and I had a field of grass to run in."

"London is not famous for clean air and good weather," Lecter joked, to himself mostly.

"It's currently famous for the Ripper," Will mumbled, face falling.

Dr Lecter sat back, drank his tea. Will started on his own cup.

"We'd already caught the Ripper when the other bodies appeared, it made no sense," Will rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger, "Unless I got it wrong."

"Or it was a copycat," Lecter suggested, frankly.

"I think the real Ripper copied him, to lead us to the wrong man. " Will sighed into his tea. The rain calmed from its initial torrent. "The real Ripper's still out there, killing people," Will glanced between Abigail and Alana, "Making threats."

"You are not to blame for the Ripper's interest in you, in us, Will." Dr Lecter insisted, taking a gulp of tea, leaning in, "And you made the right choice, leaving London till the matter is resolved."

"Thank you for having us," Will turned his eyes to the rain water racing across the window pane, through it to the woodland beside the track. He finished off his tea, it sat warm in his belly.

"You are most welcome." the doctor followed Will's eyes to the window, "I would suggest you rest some more, before we arrive."

Will nodded, rested his head on the window again, eyes tracking the rain drops as they slid down, listening to the steady beat of water hitting the roof as the bad weather eased off. Hannibal took his cup, it slid from his fingers easily. The trees and rain drops rushed by. Slower and slower, and slower.

It was pissing it down, dead of night, when he hammered on Alana's door, he stood dripping wet in the hall, hair plastered to his face.

"Will?"

He was still catching his breath, shivering as the chill caught up with him.

"Will what's wrong?"

"The Ripper," he pushed his sodden fringe aside, "The Ripper's threatening me, and you, and Dr Lecter."

"What?"

"Dr Lecter's offered to take us in, if you want to leave London."

"I'll pack," she went to turn indoors but paused, gestured at him vaguely, "And get you a towel, before you die of cold." She wasted no time, pulling out a big bag, "Come in!" she called over her shoulder, "Towels are in the bathroom, help yourself."

He hurried, trying not to create puddles in Alana's floor, and pushed open the heavy bathroom door, and walked into a room with emerald tile up the walls, light shining in through the dusty window, casting a beam onto the heavy set bathtub, bloody water pouring over the sides, tarnishing the bronze clawed feet.

The body glowed in the light, the holes in the back at the sides where kidneys should be had long since stopped pumping blood into the bath, but they still oozed.

"Is the water salty?" Will asked, he didn't fully know why.

"Err... Yes, looks to be," Jimmy Price answered.

"It's drawing out the blood," Will stepped a little closer.

"Like Kosher meat," Zeller pointed out, "Why prepare the body like that?"

"Maybe the Ripper was going to eat him," Beverly joked.

Jack frowned at her.

"Will?" Alana was calling him, she'd packed, but he wasn't in her bathroom-

"Will wake up," Alana shook him, "We're here; Hannibal's called a carriage, help me with the bags."

They each took half, Abigail followed silently, carrying only her deer pelt satchel of books, scarves and a diary. Dr Lecter helped Will lift the bigger cases on top of the carriage, while the driver held Lecter's umbrella -which was bought in France apparently- above them. All of them fit within, and the ride was surprisingly smooth, for a dirt track. Will felt when the ground changed to cobble drive.

Lecter Castle was towering, a giant imposing monster of heavy stone brick, a testament to his ancestors and their conquests, for whom which such a war fort was designed. A stag stood proud at the tree line, and at first Will thought it wild, then he remembered dead girls on antlers, and noticed it was black, feathered. It followed him even here. He blinked it away. They hurried inside.

Dr Lecter left them to dry off and change, leaving to pick up basic supplies from the town since the cupboards were bare in his absence. A housemaid in a thick buttoned coat arrived soon after them, just in time to show them to their rooms. They ate a large but simple lunch, all freshly prepared by Dr Lecter, enough to make up for the lack of breakfast. By then the rain had stopped, the doctor gave them a long tour of the grounds and house.

While Dr Lecter cooked a feast, glad for the opportunity to finally have both Alana and Will at his dinner table, he insisted they make full use of his library. It was a vast room, with a balcony level, books covering every wall, the floor laden with heavy carpets. In the centre comfortable sofas were arranged sat together, but not too close.

Alana took the time to talk with Abigail on the seats, and- feeling as if he was intruding- Will fled to the balcony level to flick through Dr Lecter's large collection of psychology books and medical tomes. The housemaid called them through as the sun started its slow descent, and she left for her own home soon after. Will wondered why she didn't live in the castle.

Dr Lecter's dining room was grand, the main stage of his opera house, a heavy wooden table consumed the space in the room, antique chairs with dark scarlet cloth lined the table, and a fire was lit at the far end. The doctor had obviously spent time setting the table, as at one end of the long table four places were set, a red table cloth folded just for them, topped with candlesticks and wine glasses. Will felt under dressed.

He and Alana sat opposite Dr Lecter and Abigail. They were eating some fancy meat, that tasted divine, but Will didn't really notice. He hadn't really talked to Abigail since he killed her father, since Hannibal took her in as his ward. On top of that awkwardness neither of them were the type for small talk, and despite Alana and Dr Lecter's attempts to start conversation, the dinner ended in silence and some baked dessert made with cream, topped with sweet blood-red raspberries, a tart.

At least the wine was mellowing him out.

Abigail excused herself, looking honestly exhausted, and Alana followed soon after to unpack her belongings, leaving Will and Dr Lecter cleaning up in the kitchen. The doctor cleaned the china and cutlery in the sink, and Will dried them off.

While mindlessly towelling the inside of Alana's wine glass, he watched as Lecter soaked the knife he'd used on the tart, something surely oversized for a simple division of portions, overtly sharp, blade stained raspberry red.

The runoff water ran down to Lecter's wrist, but never down his arm, efficiently. The movement of the knife through the water, the finger swiping the blade clean, running a nail along the edge to check it was smooth, like a razor, like the butchers at the Jewish abattoir they'd gone to hunting the Ripper. After the bathtub body.

"Smoother, sharper knives do the job quickly, painlessly," one butcher explained for him, "Kosher meat, killed correctly and drained bloodless," he advertised, sharpening the knife, "Little more money but it's healthier for your mind, body, and soul."

"Will?" He blinked, Hannibal had finished washing up, put away what he could, and started drying with the other towel. "Are you alright?"

"I-" Will breathed, stammered, "I don't really know."

"You look pale," the doctor started putting the plates away in the cupboards.

"The pasty skin of a Londoner," Will helped him, and together they finished the job.

"Get some rest Will, I fear you may be coming down with something," the doctor held the door for him.

"Thank you Dr Lecter," Will said in return. For his help, for Abigail, for the refuge, for the grandiose dinner, for everything.

"Please, I think we are on first names by now," the doctor insisted. "You are most welcome."

"Thank you Hannibal," Will corrected himself, "Good night."

\---

Jack,  
Sorry we're leaving so quickly, and that I’m saying goodbye in a note, but it's for the best with the Ripper after us. I'll send you any theories I have via telegram, any thoughts, anything I get on the Ripper. I'm not abandoning the case, keep me informed, but try to keep messages discrete, you never know if they'll get intercepted. Stay safe Jack. We'll catch him at some point, and then I'll come back, apologise to Bella for me,  
Will.


	2. Chapter 2

He dreamt again of the body in the bath, Jack asking him what he saw, the same as on the train, but the stag was in the way, it's antlers tall in the light of day, raven feathers glistening like the spilt oil from a dropped lamp, a black rainbow. Jack asked him again and he woke to the sun splitting his half drawn curtain.

The bed in the room Dr Lecter- Hannibal had designated him was more comfortable than the Crawfords could afford after bringing up a deranged young man, and he had the best night's sleep he'd ever had, despite the nightmares. He'd expected dust to get up his nose, but the room was pretty well cleaned, for such a big house and only one maid.

He dressed lighter, in an undervest, shirt and braces, a softer pair of trousers, and his nicer pair of shoes, dark tan leather. It was chilly but his only sweater was stained in places, faded, and currently smelled of wet dog, a mix of the strays Jack never let in the house, and the heavy rain during their travel.

When he walked into the kitchen, on a valiant quest for a glass of water, he found Hannibal making breakfast, dressed in his usual immaculate suit.

"Ah, Will, good morning," the doctor looked back briefly, "I trust you slept well?"

"The bed was very comfortable," Will stood, unsure where to stand, "Thank you."

"No bad dreams?"

"One," Will answered, "Wasn't too terrible either."

"I'm glad," Hannibal stopped slicing bread and headed towards the larder for fruit preserves, "Would you wake Dr Bloom and Abigail, please, and announce breakfast?"

"Sure," Will ambled off, back towards the rooms, and found Alana already in the hall, walking his way. She wore another of her classy work dresses, the trim delicate, with a light scarf at her elbows, her hair up in a simple bun, plain jewellery glittering in the corridor's lamplight.

"Good morning Will," she smiled, and he nodded, returned the sentiment.

"Dr Lecter's making breakfast," he explained, asking "I'm to wake Abigail?" because he hadn't seen where either of their rooms were, nor Hannibal's.

"She's down the hall, third door on the left," Alana gestured the directions, "But I do believe she is already awake."

"Thank you."

Abigail was indeed awake when he knocked on her door, and she was braiding her hair loosely to the side when she called, "Come in." Hannibal had bought her many new clothes since taking her in, but she still insisted on wearing her mother's fine woollen buttoned jumpers. It suited her, the simple dress in darker pastel-blue tones, the knit wear faded to near-grey deep aquamarine, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a scarf- with delicate Japanese patterning, tied with a simple ribbon at her throat.

"Mr Graham," she greeted.

"Hello," he returned.

"Is Hannibal making breakfast?" she asked, looking at him briefly though her vanity mirror before her reflection focused on the braid.

"Yes."

"Thank you Mr Graham, I will be there in a moment."

Will returned alone, followed soon after by Abigail. Together the four of them moved to the solar, the morning chill waking them up, and ate the jam of various fruits on the fresh soft bread, with slices of cheese and grapes.

Hannibal left them to their own devices for another day, heading out for the supplies the local store didn't sell; gracefully, respectfully, refusing Will and Alana's offers of help.

Abigail left to read alone, leaving Will and Alana time and space to chew the cud over the Ripper case. They set up in the library, spreading out the notes they'd brought with them, studying them, looking for things they missed. When Hannibal returned that evening, the pantry stocked full, he offered his insights and they wrapped it up for dinner. Fresh sirloin steaks, with caramelised onions. Will stumbled a little when they moved to the study for drinks and classical music curtsy of a new phonogram. So he was sent to bed early by both doctors, after a good gulp of brandy to warm him up. Sleep came easily.

He followed the stag through the blurry lantern lined corridors, a new recess in his troubled mind. The cobble chilled his feet and he heard a scream through the forest outside the thick stone walls. An echo, the dark imprint of horror woven into the carpets he reached and rubbed his toes into.

The stag turned to the bare walls, where in Jack's house there had been photos hung by the dozen. Where were the Lecter family? Will could not feel their ghosts in the house, the impression they should have left, before they left the doctor the cold castle, alone.

They turned a corner and, tilting it's antlers to get through, the stag walked inside a room. In the bath sat the man who had no name, and was soon to have no kidneys; the red water drizzled outward in an ocean that reached Will's toes. The room stank of death, and salt water, a macabre mix that reminded him of how his father died, the accident at the docks. The man, was nearly lifeless, with hollow eyes; his sodden hair- when Will got closer, closer- still smelled sullied with London's great smog. The air tasted coppery, grimy- he had to make it purer- rinsing it with salt.

He meets pained eyes and grins just slightly, and after leaning the man forward he reaches down to the deep cut, it is paralysing painful, but masked by the shock that's creeping in. He slaps him awake, and pulls the wound open with the medical equivalent of meat hooks. No, he’d do it with his hands, it wouldn’t need to be held open. The flesh makes a sound like no other, heavy wet clothing torn, squelching; there’s a vibration up his arm. New blood dances into the water. Palming the first kidney he slits it free with his scalpel, gripped well in the slickness of brine and blood. His cuticles sting a little at the salt, his own flesh starting to wrinkle.

After the second kidney, which needed a good hard _tug_ to get out properly, the heart stops pumping and the blood only proceeds to drizzle out, like paint down the sink, wine in water. And Will staggers back, the cold stone's chill- not the phantom bloody water- seeping into his drawstring bottoms. He stumbled, nauseated, to vomit in the side room's toilet.

"Will?" Hannibal asked from the bathroom door, "Do you require assistance?"

He vomited again, resting his suddenly very heavy head on the seat afterwards, and jolted only a little at the doctor's hand on his back, warm through his loose undervest. Hannibal rubbed between his shoulders till the nausea passed, warming up his back: the sore muscles under the skin. He gasped a sigh into the bowl, groaning before Hannibal pulled him up gently, checking his temperature with a hand to his forehead. After leaving Will propped up against the wall for a few seconds, Hannibal returned to hand Will a spare towel to wipe his mouth on, wetted from a bowl of water.

"You have a slight fever," the doctor commented, "You were sleepwalking."

Will nodded, "Bad dream."

"About a case?" Hannibal drew his robe together over his buttoned two-piece bed clothes, his slipper clad feet secure on the tile, unmoving. It gave him something to look at, the doctor's balanced ankles, unwavering in stark contrast to Will's wobbly dizziness.

"The body in the bathtub," Will pushed back his sweaty fringe from his face, noticing how badly he was shivering, how cold it was, “I took out his kidneys.”

"You re-enacted the crime," Hannibal summarised, "Did you dream of walking?"

"I was following the-" Will hadn't mentioned the stag to his consulting psychiatrist, "I was following the corridors of this house before I walked in here and saw the London bathroom scene, I don't know why."

"You were probably only half asleep," Hannibal considered, though he'd noted Will's stumble mid-sentence, eyes narrowing just slightly, looking Will right in the eye.

"I don't think I can sleep again," Will rubbed his eyes one handed, covering his face.

"I'll brew you some tea if you can make it downstairs," Hannibal offered.

"You don't have to," Will tried, "I'll read something."

"I don't require much sleep," the doctor helped him up, "It's nice to have company so early in the morning."

It was quite lucky that Hannibal had found him, he was quite lost in the big house. The doctor sat him down on the bench in the kitchen next to the pantry- by the passage that led outside for the servants to enter and leave the castle. He acquired Will a blanket from the next room, and wrapped it around his shoulders. Will pondered over why Hannibal only kept a maid, and why she lived away from the house, when the house had been built to house far more.

"Sugar?" Hannibal asked, "I know you don't take it, but I fear your blood sugar is dropping. I'd hate for hypothermia to have claimed you because I had no biscuits to hand out."

"If you think it will help," Will gave his consent, warming up already under the blanket, "Thank you."

Hannibal spooned the granules into his cup, then poured the tea through the filter in afterwards. He tapped tea leaf dregs from the wire mesh into the bin, rinsed it under the tap. The kettle was returned to its place, next to the filter. The washed silver stirring spoon was returned to the draw. The doctor did a last scan of his kitchen before sitting down on a buffet at the sideboard opposite to Will, who had burnt his tongue sipping the tea. He was blowing on the surface, watching his reflection ripple, distort.

"How did you find me?" Will questioned, before returning to whistling silently into his tea.

"I heard someone walking in the corridor past my room," Hannibal answered.

"You were awake? I didn't wake you?" Will chanced another sip, got burned again, and left the tea to cool on its own.

"I was reading," Hannibal crossed his legs, the silk trousers gliding across one another. He adjusted the robe accordingly, "In bed. As I said, I sleep very little."

They sat in silence, Will sipping at the scolding tea until it was cool enough to drink normally, Hannibal reading a big book about cooking, looking for ideas for the next day's feast. Shadows crept across the floor, growing more defined as the sun inched higher in the cloudy sky. Then Alana joined them and he felt underdressed in his moth bitten vest and old drawstring bottoms, and excused himself to get ready after a quick "Good morning."

Over breakfast a fully dressed Hannibal told them his old friend Bedelia would be visiting, having not seen him since he left for London. She arrived before dinner, allowing them to privately catch up in the kitchen while Hannibal cooked. 

Will warmed up by the fire while Abigail and Alana talked in the living room. Their conversation had a rhythm, like poetry, it flowed gently. He watched the flames lick the fire wood, burn it to ashes, consume the energy stored in the split, broken logs, and make it their own, then dance. The haze consumed the fire place, blurring everything out, making Will blink to focus his vision on the glowing embers.

In Virginia their town had burned one night. He does not remember his father dragging him from bed, or standing in the grassy plain outside alone, or the people helping his father lay his mother down a few steps away. He remembers staring blankly at a chunk of their home that had rolled to stop at his bare feet. Watching the embers reignite. His mother's rough cough. The flames at his feet. The bead of fevered sweat dripping down the back of his neck and the hollow chill within, like he'd swallowed ice-

"Does it need another?" Alana asked, like she was emerging from water, muffled then suddenly right in his ear, he rapidly felt nauseous, dizzy.

"What?" he croaked.

"Does the fire need another log?" Abigail reiterated from the lounge chair opposite, "I can only assume that's what you're wondering so deeply."

"Will?" Alana had moved in her seat- he hadn't seen. Abigail was standing, mildly concerned- or intrigued. "You're pale."

"I don't feel quiet myself," he admitted, wishing very badly to curl in on himself. He could hear someone coughing, the smoke from the fireplace stuck in his nose. His stomach ached, so very cold. So very empty.

"Should I get Dr Lecter?" Abigail asked calmly, far away.

"Will?" Alana asked, in his ear. He tried to shrug her off but opened his eyes instead and found her sat where she'd been all along.

"I'm fine," Will tugged his coat closer, "Just a little cold."

Alana approached like you'd near a wounded dog, hands raised, slow, she felt his forehead with the back of her hand, his cheek, "You're boiling up Will."

He shuddered and her hands left him, the nausea had passed, but left lethargy in its place. He coughed, like his mother did in her sick bed, lungs burnt by hot smoke, slowly fading- 

"I think you should sleep this off," Alana told him, "We can check on you, but I don't think you're well enough to sit through dinner."

"I-" Will mumbled, a bead of sweat jumped off his brow, hit his cheekbone and splattered, "Okay." He blinked heavy. The lump in his throat got swallowed, but didn't go down.

"Will?" 

Hannibal appeared in the doorway, in his apron, the elegant blonde Bedelia carefully emotionless in her face behind him, Abigail stepping in and to the side ahead of him.

"You're showing no improvement," he said, drawing nearer, Will tilted dangerously as he tried to sit up, "How is his fever?" he asked Alana.

"He's boiling up," she answered, watching Will sway slightly, "Was he already sick?"

"He was ill this morning, early," Hannibal answered her, "Sleep walking." He turned to Will, "I thought you were getting better, but it seems you've taken a turn for the worse."

"I'm tired," Will mumbled.  
"Alana, take him to bed, I will get him a glass of water and some medicine," Hannibal said.  
Bedelia helped Alana take him upstairs, and while Alana gathered cool wet towels, she spoke to Will,  
"Hannibal wrote much about you in his letters to me, Mr Graham."  
"Oh?" Will frowned, his head hurt.  
"He seems very invested in you," she said, leaning against the side table, "Do not mistake his interest for his affection."  
"What?" Will couldn’t really concentrate.  
"Hannibal has his secrets, I suspect many of them, and will keep all of them private, for his sake," she said, "But be wary Mr Graham."  
"I’m sorry?" He was a little confused, but then Hannibal stepped in, and the mysterious blonde woman stepped out.

The put him to bed and checked on him three times, he felt hot and cold and hot and drenched in sweat, but better when either of the doctors dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth. He mumbled into the half-light, saw Abigail poke her head around the door, nightgown swishing like the girl impaled on antlers, so he looked away, watched the ceiling burn up with embers returning to life. Smoke and the peeling hospice wallpaper, his mother dying in her sleep. The screams as the street burned. The pain stabbed at him, chased away the haze and he was sick into the chamber pot while Alana rubbed his back, her hair tied back hastily, while Hannibal quickly mixed a tincture in the low lamp light. Dim glow, red and orange and yellow and when morning came it was with the sight of Hannibal reading in the pale light.

"How do you feel?" he asked from the armchair, immediately noticing Will was awake.

"Terrible," Will croaked, "But much better, thank you, my head is clearer."

"Good," Hannibal smiled, a small lift of his lip, "It would do you well to have a walk and some light breakfast; the maid can change your sheets then."

He was fed soup in the kitchen, then moved to the library, feeling much better. His fever had even gone down. Abigail and Alana kept him company, Alana teaching Abigail some history from a tome. They learnt the story of how a Hannibal of years before nearly destroyed all of western culture, but didn't because he couldn't quite take Rome. After lunch they both went to town, leaving Will with Hannibal, who eventually left to make dinner arrangements for them both, to cook a meal extravagant but plain enough not to make Will sicker.

Alone, Will explored the castle.

The sun set slowly, casting long shadows in the corridors he wandered, saturating the paintings with orange light, making the scenes transcribed on canvas seem much happier. Then evening's darkness fell and the stag nudged him through the blanket, the borrowed silk dressing-gown, the vest.

The stag nudged him towards the bathroom again, and he fell to his knees- like a churchman to his God, before the bloody bathtub. He laughed, stopping when it started to sound hysterical, then chuckled lowly, sitting up on his knees, slowly, like a predator, to peak over the bath rim at his hapless victim. And found it empty. The stag snorted a breath from the door and touched his shoulder- His ears popped like when water clears from their canals after a bath.

"Will."

The word stretched and the bathroom spun.

"Will look at me."

Hannibal's red tinted eyes.

Will stared back blankly, he felt like he was watching Hannibal touch his face from outside himself. He just felt hollow- then dizzily he blinked, face stinging lightly. Hannibal had slapped his cheek.

"Will you're zoning out," Hannibal informed him while he blinked owlishly, "You're overheating, I need to cool you down, right now."

Will let himself be carefully manhandled, like a puppet with its strings cut.

He struggled when he realised 'cool down' meant getting into the bathtub. Hannibal understood, helped Will through his own bedroom to his private bathroom, where the walls weren't emerald malachite tiles, couldn't be, because they were rough cobblestone, a round room instead of a square. While the bath way running, Hannibal wrapped a towel damp with cold water around his shoulder and head, and he moaned a little at how much it reduced the headache he hadn't noticed he had. Hannibal helped him undress, helped him into the mild bath; forced him when he tried to flee the chilly water that pressed against his heated skin.

His foggy mind drifted as Hannibal, sleeves rolled, scooped water to let it run through his messy curls. The stag loomed over him but Hannibal was back, lifting his arms to wash him, lowering them, calling "Will?"

He hummed a response.

"Can you turn around so I can wash your left side?"

Will held his modesty towel in place and swivelled round. Hannibal thanked him.

"I'm tired."

"We'll get you to bed soon Will, okay? Dr Bloom and Abigail will be returning soon, Alana can help me take care of you."

"Thank you, Hannibal."

"You are welcome Will," the doctor said levelly, cleaning his sore feet, his knees. He drifted again. He dreamt Alana was forcing his mouth open, Hannibal dripping a tincture under his tongue, how cold the alcohol felt. He squirmed. Hannibal rubbed his arm, slowly, slowly, through his silk dressing gown. No, it was against his bare skin, slowly, his hyperawareness making the touch tingle, uncomfortable. He shrugged. Alana cooled him down, wiping his forehead and collar, wrists, feet, with icy water. Every colour saturated, the orange lamp glow blindingly dim, Hannibal's cheekbones stood out, Alana's jewellery glittered. He blinked and it was morning.

"You're awake," Hannibal said, as if it were a commodity, "How do you feel?" Sat in the armchair, putting his book down.

After a quick assessment Will answered, "Not good." Hannibal had stood in the time it took him to reply.

"Do you feel like you could stomach some soup?"

"I could try," Will started to sit up, but was gently pushed back down.

"I will bring it here, try to rest," Hannibal straightened the covers, neatened the crumples, then left the room.

\---

Jack,  
Sorry I don't have any theories to send, but I thought I should let you know I've fallen ill, Dr Lecter and Dr Bloom are taking care of me, though I don't know whether I'm making much improvement. I can only presume you'll get this, I gave it to Alana for when she went onto the town. Send reply to the post office, better if we don't give away Dr Lecter's home address to a serial killer, just in case he has the money to travel. Tell Bella she's in my thoughts, I know she was under the weather when we left, I'm hoping she's better.  
Will.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Mature for the Graphic Murders. Slight Dub-Con due to Will's mental state.
> 
> If you spot any obvious mistakes please tell me.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
